


you are the perfect drug (and i want you)

by trustingno1



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Drug Use, M/M, Sherlock Experiments on John, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-21
Updated: 2014-04-21
Packaged: 2018-01-20 06:16:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1499789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingno1/pseuds/trustingno1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So," John says, setting down his mug, wiping the corner of his mouth with his thumb, "what exactly did you drug me with, this time?"</p><p>Sherlock blinks at him for a good few seconds, standing - <i>dithering</i> - beside his armchair. "I," he says, delicately, before breaking off, as close to stunned as he gets, and John crosses his legs, lacing his fingers in his lap like he's got all day. </p><p>(To be fair; he does. It's only Wednesday, and they won't need him at the clinic until Saturday).</p>
            </blockquote>





	you are the perfect drug (and i want you)

**Author's Note:**

> "Now John I’d poison. Sloppy eater, dead easy. I’ve given him chemicals and compounds that way; he’s never even noticed. He missed a whole Wednesday once, didn’t have a clue." - Sherlock, 3x02 _The Sign of Three_.

  
"So," John says, setting down his mug, wiping the corner of his mouth with his thumb, "what exactly did you drug me with, this time?"  
  
Sherlock blinks at him for a good few seconds, standing - _dithering_ \- beside his armchair. "I," he says, delicately, before breaking off, as close to stunned as he gets, and John crosses his legs, lacing his fingers in his lap like he's got all day.  
  
(To be fair; he does. It's only Wednesday, and they won't need him at the clinic until Saturday).  
  
"Sherlock," he says, almost fondly. "I'm not an idiot. You made me _tea_."  
  
Sherlock opens his mouth. Closes it.  
  
"You can't tell me," John surmises, and Sherlock stares at him for a long moment. He holds his hands up, "Fair enough." Off the brief look of surprise that crosses Sherlock's face, John adds, "You're not the only one in this flat that can appreciate good experimental design, mate," and when Sherlock screws up his face in disagreement, John points at him, "Oi. I went to _medical school_."  
  
He unfolds the newspaper, skimming the front page. Sherlock sits back down at the kitchen table, behind him.  
  
A thought occurs to him -  
  
"Lasting effects?" John asks, putting down the paper, turning his head to the side a bit.  
  
"None," Sherlock says, immediately. "It'll be out of your system by morning."  
  
" _Morn_ \- you know what? Never mind. _Never mind_. Potential for embarrassment?"  
  
"Low," Sherlock says, "It shouldn't alter your behaviour in any way."  
  
John's gaze is thoughtful. "Physiological effects?"  
  
Sherlock pauses. "None," he says, a little hesitantly, and John groans.  
  
" _Have you tested this on yourself?_ " he asks, because that was one of the first _rules_ Sherlock agreed to when it became clear that 'don't drug your flatmate' was asking a bit too much, apparently -  
  
"In a smaller dose," Sherlock admits, and John drops his head back against the armchair for a moment.  
  
"Of course," he mutters, before straightening up. Thinking about Baskerville, "Does me knowing I've been drugged ruin your experiment?"  
  
There's another pause. "Highly unlikely."  
  
His final, most pressing concern. " _Do_ we have to leave the flat?"  
  
"Nope," Sherlock replies, popping the 'p'.  
  
"Cheers," John says, re-opening his newspaper. "Let me know when you need me to ... do something." (If he had to choose, he prefers the physiological measurements - Sherlock taking his pulse, as John continues to tap away at his laptop, checking his pupil dilation as John watches telly - to the bloody questionnaires. Those things can take _hours_ ).  
  
And, _honestly_. He probably does seem slow on the uptake to Sherlock, but he's not a _complete_ idiot. Sherlock can stop gaping at his back any second now, ta.  
  
He stares at the newspaper, but he's not taking anything in, and he knows it's just in his head, but his skin's prickling and he tosses the paper aside _again_ and stands.  
  
Sherlock watches him move into the kitchen, silent and considering, and he ignores his flatmate, dropping his teacup into the sink, and when he turns, Sherlock's standing, too, right behind him.  
  
"You're upset," Sherlock murmurs, and, oh, _excellent_ deduction.  
  
"You _said_ ," John says, pointing a finger at Sherlock, but they both know he's not truly angry, no. On edge, a little antsy, maybe, "the worst would be the violin and the sulks -"  
  
"It's not _sulking_ ," Sherlock murmurs, and that is a _blatant_ untruth, so John ignores him.  
  
"If you'd said you'd be _drugging_ me on a semi-regular basis-"  
  
"Oh, you would've moved in anyway," Sherlock says, dismissively, and when John laughs, it's unselfconscious, and his shoulders relax.  
  
"Probably," he says, easily, still smiling, and Sherlock actually smiles _back_ at him, a real, conspiratorial smile that deepens the lines bracketing his mouth, and there's absolutely nothing remarkable about this morning, aside from a bit of experimental pharmacology; they're standing in their mess of a kitchen on a lazy weekday morning, nowhere to be, no cases to solve and before he can second guess himself, he steps into Sherlock, lifts his chin and kisses him.  
  
Sherlock inhales sharply through his nose, like John's actually managed to surprise him, but he doesn't pull back. His hands come up to hover, awkwardly, around John's face, and John smiles into the kiss, cupping Sherlock's cheeks in encouragement, sucking lightly on his top lip.  
  
Sherlock's hands land on John's face, hesitantly, and _Christ_ , his hands are big, and John urges Sherlock's mouth open until it's all slick heat and sliding tongues and Sherlock makes a small noise into his mouth.  
  
John pulls back, hands dropping to cup the sides of Sherlock's neck.  
  
"OK?" he checks, searching Sherlock's gaze and Sherlock blinks.  
  
"John, I think you should know," he swallows, and John strokes a thumb along the line of Sherlock's jaw, urging him to continue. Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment, a complicated expression John can't quite read crossing his face, but he leans down to kiss John again, more urgently, mouth opening immediately, and when he sucks on Sherlock's tongue, Sherlock presses against him needily.  
  
It doesn't look like he's going to finish that sentence and that's _fine_ , it's all good, and one of John's hands drops to Sherlock's hip, the other gripping the back of his neck. He pushes at Sherlock until he's pressed up against the kitchen counter, mouths parting and reconnecting with soft, wet noises, and Sherlock's hands are clutching at the back of John's shirt.  
  
He rolls his hips in a lazy, instinctive rhythm, getting his dick interested in proceedings, only breaking away from Sherlock's kisses to mouth at his shoulder through his dressing gown.  
  
"John, I have a great deal of affection for you," Sherlock murmurs, into his neck, like it hurts him to admit.  
  
"Good," John pants, "No, that's good."  
  
Sherlock's hips are pushing back against his, now, and John bites at Sherlock's neck for a moment, before pulling back a bit.  
  
Sherlock helps him pull his shirt up and over his head, fingers tangling with John's , and John grins, tugging him in for another, gentler kiss.  
  
Sherlock steps around him and leans over the kitchen table, pushing some of his work to the side, and something about the position snaps something in John's self-control, and he grabs the curve of Sherlock's neck, hard, and presses up behind him, rutting against him, crude imitation and _promise_ of what's to come, and Sherlock's hands search for purchase on the tabletop as he rocks back into John.  
  
John shoves a stack of papers out of the way, just glancing at them, and it's just a _glance_ , a fucking _glance_ , but he knows what the file is, and he's putting it together too quickly, and he picks up the folder and steps back, until he's not touching Sherlock at all.  
  
Sherlock straightens up, face closing off when he sees the file in John's hand.  
  
"Sherlock," he says, dead calm, voice low, and that's probably the tell, "This drug. Does it have to do with a case?"  
  
"Possibly," Sherlock hedges.  
  
"Right" he says, "Does this have to do with the bank heist?"  
  
Sherlock takes the file off him. "John-"  
  
"You're testing Gardner's defence," John says, resigned. "It's got amnesic properties, doesn't it?" It's not really a question. " _Christ_ , Sherlock."  
  
"It'll wear off overnight," Sherlock protests, like _he's_ got the right to the moral high ground, right now.  
  
(John just - needs a moment. Because there's a heaviness in his stomach, in his chest and it feels like he can't quite get a proper breath in).  
  
"You wanted to shag me as part of an _experiment_ ," he says, tightly.  
  
Sherlock cocks his head to the side, considering. "I was rather hoping it'd be the other way around, but-"  
  
" _Jesus_ , Sherlock," John hisses, turning away for a second. "Do you honestly not understand how-" he breaks off. Swallows, hard. "This is the _worst_ -" he can't finish a fucking _sentence_ , but he can't stay here, with Sherlock leaning against the table looking so genuinely _bewildered_ , but the world's only consulting detective should be able to understand what John storming up the stairs and slamming his bedroom door means.  
  
  
  
*  
  
  
He's been up in his room for almost an hour before Sherlock knocks on his door as he pushes it open.  
  
"You know, it's convention to wait until you're invited in," John says, without looking up from his laptop, and Sherlock steps into the room and leans against the doorframe.  
  
"Mmnn," he hums in agreement. "I don't imagine that'll be any time soon."  
  
"Oh, _good_ deduction," John says, bitingly, and Sherlock doesn't reply. John taps at his keyboard. It's bloody _hard_ to concentrate with Sherlock standing in his doorway, doing his best to look apologetic and remorseful and it's just such _bollocks_. "Can this wait?" he asks, tetchily, still staring at the screen.  
  
"John," Sherlock says, softly. "It's not - what you think," and John glances up and raises an eyebrow, a little incredulously, and Sherlock tilts his head in acquiescence. "Not _quite_ what you think," he amends, and John closes his laptop, placing it on the bed beside him.  
  
"Please," he says, sarcastically, spreading his arms, "Go on. Tell me what my funny little human brain doesn't understand this time."  
  
Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment, but John, John refuses to feel bad about _this_.  
  
"Seducing you - "  
  
"Seducing _me_?" John echoes, disbelievingly.  
  
" - was never part of the experiment, as such. I - saw an opportunity, in the moment. To reduce the risk of detrimental consequences to our friendship if my," he pauses, lips curling around the word, " _affections_ weren't ... returned."  
  
John mulls it over for a moment.  
  
"Not good, Sherlock," he says, closing his eyes for a moment. "Really, really not good. You can't use people's ... feelings. As part of an experiment." Sherlock looks like he's going to argue - when does he not? - so John adds, tiredly, "Tell me it didn't cross your mind. Tell me," he clarifies, "that you didn't think, for even a second, how _fascinating_ it'd be to shag me and me not remember. Because," he cocks his head to the side, eyes raking up and down Sherlock, "no matter what happened next - no matter how many dates I'd go on, no matter how many times I'd say that you and I aren't _together_ , you'd know, yeah? You'd know that I wanted it. Wanted you."  
  
" _John_ ," Sherlock says, achingly gently, and no, _no_. John gets to speak, now.  
  
"It's actually quite brilliant," John says, and it's not the normal way he says it, all admiring and _fond_ , and Sherlock's lips twist unhappily. "You wouldn't have to worry about your _blogger_ leaving, because you'd know," his breath catches, and he pauses, "you'd know that, deep down, he's so _desperately_ in love with you that he'd get down on his knees on the kitchen _floor_."  
  
His jaw sets, lips pressing together tightly, and Sherlock sort of nods and turns to leave and it was probably too much to hope that they could talk about this like _adults_ -  
  
Sherlock turns back, abruptly. "You kissed _me_ ," he points out.  
  
John snorts. "I seem to remember a lot of kissing," he says, sharply, and Sherlock flushes a little, but presses on.  
  
"It might be easier for you to think of this as some elaborate, emotionless plan of mine, John," he says, touching the doorframe lightly with his fingertips, "But you kissed me first. There were nine different ways I saw the morning playing out, once you'd realized that your tea was ... chemically altered-"  
  
"Drugged," John corrects, flatly.  
  
"- but this wasn't one of them," Sherlock continues, ignoring him.  
  
"You were wrong, then," and John's needling him on purpose.  
  
"About a few things, evidently," Sherlock says, mildly, then, stepping closer, hand falling away from the door, a little imploringly, "John, if you were in my place-"  
  
"Oh, if _I_ went around drugging people?" He points to himself in mock confusion.  
  
"If you were in my place, if you were offered everything you'd ever wanted, everything you thought you'd never have, everything you'd taught yourself _not_ to want; in that moment, you can't tell me you wouldn't _think_ about taking it.  
  
"And maybe a better man would've stopped you," Sherlock continues, "Knowing, as I did, that you wouldn't remember any of it-"  
  
" _Maybe_?" John echoes, incredulously, almost silently.  
  
"But I've never pretended to be a particularly good man," Sherlock says. "And I knew that ... that if you couldn't remember it, you couldn't regret it."  
  
"That is a _piss-poor_ defence," John mumbles, fingers curling and uncurling where they lie, against his thigh.  
  
"Probably," Sherlock allows, but his gaze holds firm on John's.  
  
  
*  
  
  
He's not sure how long he sits there, this time, thoughts chasing each other around his mind so quickly he can't quite latch onto one; _"John, I think you should know-", fingers tangling together, "I have a great deal of affection for you,", sucking on Sherlock's tongue, "-if you couldn't remember it, you couldn't regret it,", Sherlock smiling down at him in the kitchen and "-everything you thought you'd never have-"_  
  
He takes a steadying breath, and heads downstairs.  
  
  
*  
  
  
"I'm still angry," John announces as he enters the room, and Sherlock glances at him from the sofa without moving his head.  
  
"I had assumed as much," he murmurs.  
  
John waves at sofa, and Sherlock silently draws his knees up and makes room for him. John sits, slowly, and urges Sherlock's feet back, into his lap, and he's holding so _still_ and _stiff_ that John rubs at his pyjama-clad shin affectionately.  
  
He doesn't turn to look at Sherlock when he says, "But I probably could've handled that a bit better."  
  
"Yes," Sherlock says, and John huffs a laugh.  
  
"Piss off," he says, amiably. "You could've, too."  
  
"Ehhhh," Sherlock draws out, but he's kidding, and John laughs again, and Sherlock digs his feet into John's lap until John takes up rubbing his legs again.  
  
"We good?" he checks. He knows the answer.  
  
"Of course," Sherlock says, with surprising solemnity, and John chances a glance over at his face, and Sherlock gazes back at him, steadily.  
  
"Right," John says, almost to himself. His thumb traces the point of Sherlock's ankle. "So, tomorrow," he says, carefully. "I won't remember any of this?"  
  
Sherlock glances up at the ceiling. "It will be," he says, "as though none of this ever happened."  
  
"Pity," John murmurs, thumb brushing under the cuff of Sherlock's pyjama pants, catching on the hair on his shin. "Sherlock," he says, turning towards him a little, "I won't - regret it."  
  
"You won't _remember_ it," Sherlock replies.  
  
"No, I know. Not today. But if we ever - and I'm not, you know, drugged to the eyeballs. I won't regret it." His thumb is still moving, just small, light circles on Sherlock's leg and Sherlock studies him for a moment.  
  
" _When_ ," he finally corrects, because heaven forbid _John_ ever get the last word, and hang on - _when_? Sherlock's still watching him.  
  
"When," he repeats, to be sure. _When_ is good. He can work with _when_.  
  
"When," Sherlock promises, and John holds his gaze for another moment before ducking his chin and grinning.  
  
"Right," he says, again, tapping Sherlock's legs, "Up. I need my laptop."  
  
  
*  
  
  
Sherlock's bent over his microscope, and John's sitting in Sherlock's armchair so he can glance up at him, every now and then, as he pecks away at the new Word document he's opened up.  
  


 

> You're not going to remember writing this, because Sherlock's drugged you. Yes, again. You're going to have forgotten everything that happened today (go check the date of this!), but read this to the end before you go yell at him.
> 
> Sherlock drugged you and you snogged him in the kitchen and he swears it wasn't the drugs that made you do it. You realized he was testing the bank heist defence (drug-induced memory loss, remember? ha ha). The two of you had a bit of a domestic.
> 
> You were angry about it when it happened, and you'll be angry reading about it. But don't be too hard on him. I think he made the wrong choice, but for the right reasons.
> 
> If you've read all of this, now you can go yell at him. Listen to his explanations, when you calm down. But yell at him a little bit. And don't forget to add "drugs with amnesic properties" to the list of things it is NOT OK to test on flatmates!

  
  
  
He saves the document and closes his laptop.  
  
"I'm turning in," he says, with a stretch.  
  
"Mmmn," Sherlock agrees, without looking up from the microscope.  
  
"Don't stay up too late," John says, before his hands settle on Sherlock's shoulders. He leans down and presses a gentle kiss to Sherlock's hair. "Been a long day." He lingers there for a moment, chest aching like he's losing something, before he squeezes Sherlock's shoulders and pulls away.  
  
  
*  
  
  
Sherlock's phone beeps as John enters the kitchen, still rubbing his hair dry.  
  
"It's your phone," he points out, passing behind Sherlock bent over the microscope, stepping around the hanged mannequin.  
  
"Mmnm," Sherlock hums, "Keeps doing that."  
  
He scans the front page of the newspaper. "So," he deadpans, "Did you just - talk to him for a really long time?"  
  
"Oh. Henry Fishguard never committed suicide," Sherlock says, "Bow Street Runners," he says, snapping the old case notes closed. "Missed everything."  
  
"Pressing case, is it," John kids.  
  
"They're all pressing until they're solved," Sherlock replies, distractedly.  
  
John doesn't reply. There's something - familiar about the paper. He double-checks the date; no, definitely Wednesday's paper. He frowns. There's something just - out of reach,  - niggling away at the back of his mind, and he can't quite -  
  
Sherlock's bloody phone again.  
  
"I'll get it, shall I?" he doesn't ask, standing up and grabbing Sherlock's phone. Probably Mycroft. He'll read Sherlock the text (no matter how irritably he protests), go back to the paper, have a cuppa, check his emails -  
  
but the text isn't from Mycroft (and oh, how he wishes it _was_ ), and his plans for the morning are forgotten in a heartbeat and it's like the ground _tilts_ beneath his _feet_.

 

> Come and play.  
>  Tower Hill.  
>  Jim Moriarty x.

     


End file.
